The Greatest Thing
by Summer Tea
Summary: Kurt is the star performer at the Moulin Rouge. Blaine has come to Paris with dreams of being a poet. Mistaking him for the Duke, Kurt falls in love with Blaine, propelling them both into a secret and trying relationship. Moulin Rouge AU
1. Chapter 1

_There was a boy. A very strange, enchanted boy. They say he wandered very far. Very far. Over land and sea. _

In Paris there was a small, dingy village, called Monmarte. The gutters were filled with whores and addicts, and other creatures wallowing in their own misfortunes. It was in this village, in the top floor of an broken down building, there was a flat.

_A little shy, and sad of eye. But very wise was he._

In that dark, barren apartment, a man sat. Sprawled across the floor and broken. Bottle in hand. Grimy locks of raven hair hung across his eyes. Trash and dirt cluttered the floor. A single candle was lit, casting a dusky light across the room.

_And then one day... one magic day he passed my way._

Blaine looked up, seeing with clarity for the first time in months. He stood, letting the bottle slip from his finger and clatter to the floor, empty. He stumbled over to the desk, staring at a dust covered typewriter.

How many times had he done this? It seemed like yesterday he could just sit down and let the words flow out of his finger and onto paper. He shuffled back and forth. Touching the chair, touching another bottle, touching the chair again.

Finally, Blaine sank into the seat, gliding his fingers over the keys. _No, it's time._ He drew in a shaky breath, and began typing.

_And while we spoke of many things – fools and kings – this, he said to me:_

The tacking of the typewriter echoed through the empty apartment. "_The greatest thing_" he paused, heart thumping in his chest, "_you'll ever learn is just to love, and be loved in return._"

He stopped, choking on a sob, staring at the tiny black letters. This was going to hurt. Blaine promised himself that once he started, he would stop until it was finished. He needed another drink.

Instead, he resumed typing.

"_The Moulin Rouge. A night club._" Images of windmills and women dressed in revealing gowns floated through his head.

"_A dance hall on the bordello. Ruled over by Rachel Berry._" Blaine hadn't seen her since the night his world had shattered, but her memory came to him vividly. Small and loud, decked out in a top hat and huge grin. No one but Rachel could have made the Moulin Rouge what it was.

"_A kingdom of nighttime pleasures._" There was never a night when Moulin Rouge wasn't packed with men. Men with deep pockets and grabbing hands. Hands Rachel was only too happy to shove girls and boys into. "_Where the rich and powerful came to play with the young and beautiful creatures of the underworld._"

Blaine's fingers steadily typed away, the images in his head replaying like he was living his life all over again.

"_The most beautiful of these, was the man I loved. Kurt. A courtesan._" He remember Kurt the first time he saw him: pale and beautiful. A knowing smile curling his lips. "_He sold his love to men. They called him 'The Sparking Diamond'._"

Kurt's face filled his mind. Eyes sparkling as he laughed, brushing a kiss against Blaine's lips.

Tears slipped down Blaine's face, but he ignored them. "_The man I love is... _dead."

He pushed the sound of Kurt's gasps away, pecking at the keys with a new found fervor.

"_I first came to Paris one year ago._"


	2. Chapter 2

"_It was 1899: The summer of Love. I knew nothing of the Moulin Rouge, Rachel Berry, or Kurt. The world had been swept up in a Bohemian revolution, and I had traveled from London to be a part of it_."

Blaine stepped off the train, looking around him with a contented sigh. Paris was everything he'd hoped it would be. Well, the train station was.

Sun streamed through the windows overhead, bathing the platform in light. He ran a hand through his curls, taking it all in. The bustling crowd. The sound of people talking over each other and the engines. He tightened his grip on his guitar, then bent to pick up his suitcase, smiling.

Typewriter in one hand, guitar in the other, Blaine headed out of the station. In his pocket was a scrap a paper, on which there was a scribbled address. It had been folded and unfolded so many times the creases were beginning to fray. He thought about pulling it out again, but he was here, and it was real, and he didn't need the paper for pretending anymore.

On the street, he stopped a couple. "Excuse me, could you tell me how to get to Montmarte?" He smiled at them. The man looked at him with thinly veiled disgust, and pointed east. "Thank you, very much." Blaine turned and all but ran in the direction of the village.

"_On the hill near Paris was the village of Montmarte. It was not as my father had said. 'A village of __sin__.' But the center of the Bohemian world. Musicians. Painters. Writers. They were known as 'Children of the Revolution_'."

Blaine walked through the arch baring the village's name. It was more than he could have ever hoped for. He heard the singing ages before he saw the players.

There, a man playing the mandolin and singing. A group of children ran around his feet, dancing and laughing.

Here, a woman had set up a canvas, and on it was beginning to etch a cafe across the street.

He walked down the road, past something called an Absinthe Bar, searching the numbers on the buildings for the ones matching his written address. Finally, he saw it. A large building, flanked with the word 'L'Amour' in large, red letters.

Finally. His new home. Grinning, he headed inside.

A short, plump man sat behind the front desk. He looked up and squinted at Blaine through round glasses. "Can I help you?"

"Yes." He set his suitcase on the floor and walked up to the counter. "My name is Blaine Anderson. I've been mailing back and forth with a Sandy, about renting a room here?"

The man smiled. "That would be me! Yes, Blaine, of course." He pulled out a faded ledger. "I've got a small flat set up for you on the third floor. The rate is the same as we discussed in the letters." He looked up, raising his eyebrows, and Blaine nodded in agreement to the unasked question. "Rent is due every Friday. No exceptions." He made a note before closing the book again.

He turned toward a small rack of keys hanging on the wall and selected one. "Here you are. There are meals available, for an extra fee. Though, dinner on Sundays is always complimentary." He handed Blaine the key.

"And if you ever want to come and see me for... tea? Well, that's always on the house." Sandy smiled at him.

Blaine laughed, unsure. "Alright. Well, thank you, Sandy. I'll just go up and see my room." Trying his best not to look like he was hurrying, Blaine picked up his suitcase again and headed for the stairs.

Sandy's eyes followed him up.

"_Yes, I had come to live a penniless existence. I had come to write about truth, beauty, freedom, and – that which I believed in above all things – love._"

It was perfect. One room, fully furnished. Or, as furnished as one gets on a pittance. From the windows in the room he could see the fins of the windmill for the Moulin Rouge. Perfect.

Blaine unpacked what few items he'd brought with him. He opened his typewriter and set on the desk by the window. He pulled his clothes from where the lined his guitar case and smoothed them out before folding them into his dresser.

The guitar he took out, sitting on his bed. For a while he just sat, leaning against the wall, strumming. He stared at the ceiling, smiling dreamily to himself. He was here.

Eventually, Blaine decided it was time to get to work. You don't become an established poet without doing some writing first. He'd decided on love poems. All the best stories were love stories.

Slipping a fresh sheet of paper into the typewriter, Blaine pulled up the straight back chair close to the desk. He cracked his knuckles and positioned his hands on the keys.

And waited. And waited. And waited.

"_There was only one problem. I'd never been in love._"

Blaine sat in his chair, heart pounding. Why wasn't he writing? He was in Paris, after all. City of Bohemian love. He should be typing non-stop. Words should be flowing out of him. He should have written a hundred epic love poems by now.

But had he to go on? His relationship with Cindy, which had ended when her boyfriend came home from holiday early and punched him out? Francis, who had run off in the night never to be heard from again?

No, no. That wasn't epic romance. That was hardly puppy love. Blaine felt his palms begin to sweat. This was starting to seem like a terrible idea.

"_Luckily, right at that moment, an unconscious Dutch girl fell through my roof. She was quickly joined by a giant dressed as a nun._"


	3. Chapter 3

The sound of the the ceiling crumpling was momentarily deafening. Blaine shot up from his chair, watching, stunned, as the girl fell through, stopping just inches above the floor, a hat fluttering down after her. Her limbs hung off her loosely. He heard a shout from above, but he stared at her, stunned.

A few seconds later, the door to his apartment flew open. A man stood there, his hair almost brushing the top of the door frame. He had a sheet draped over his head.

The Dutch girl swung gently back and forth, a loose rope tangled around her ankle her saving grace. The giant stood in the doorway, grinning at Blaine. "Hey."

"Who - " He waved away the dust cloud, coughing.

"I'm Finn Hudson. Sorry about..." he gestured to the girl absently, "that. We're rehearsing a play up there." He walked over to her, stilling her swaying.

"What?" Blaine stared, bewildered by Finn's calmness of the situation.

"_A play, something very modern called, 'Spectacular Spectacular'._"

"It's set in Switzerland. That was my idea." He smiled at Blaine, one corner of his mouth perking up farther than the other. He grabbed the Dutch girl by her pant leg, spinning her around. She looked oddly serene. Blaine noticed she was wearing a large, fake mustache.

"She has narcolepsy. One second she's dancing around and then bam!" Finn slapped his hands together. "Completely out the next. But don't worry about her, this happens all the time." He wrapped his arms around her and hoisted her onto his shoulder before starting in on the knots around her legs.

"Finn!" Both Finn and Blaine looked up.

Three heads poked over the edge of the hole in the ceiling. A second blonde girl, an Asian man and dark haired man with glasses. The girl and the man with glasses looked concerned, while the Asian simply looked angry.

"Is she okay?" the Asian man asked.

"She's fiiiine," Finn answered, fingers pulling at the ropes.

"Great. Brittany is unconscious, the script isn't done, and the play won't be finished in time to present to the financier tomorrow. We're done for." He sighed, frustrated.

"Mike _has_ a point," the man with glasses said. "I still have to finish the music, Finn."

"So? We'll find a stand in." Finn untangled the rope from Brittany's leg, holding her tightly so she wouldn't slip off.

"What?" Mike snapped. "Where are we going to just find someone to read the role of the young, sensitive Swiss poet/goat-herder?"

Blaine suddenly felt all eyes fall on him. He glanced at Finn, who grinned back.

"_Before I knew it I was upstairs, standing in for the unconscious Dutch girl._"

Blaine stood on top of a rickety ladder, hat jammed on his head, wearing a pair of lederhosen that was two sizes too small. He gripped the peak of a large faux mountain, praying he maintained his balance. He looked at the scene laid out before him and cringed.

Brittany was passed out on the bed, perilously close to the hole in the floor. Finn had taken off her shoes and the fake mustache. Artie, the composer, had some instrument that was making a terrible warbling noise. The other blonde girl – Blaine had yet to catch her name – was fiddling with a light, which crackled dangerously in her hands, though she didn't seem to mind.

Finn strode across the floor, crooning. "_The hills animate with the euphonious symphonies of descant!_"

Blaine winced. The real problem here wasn't whether or not the play would be finished in time.

Suddenly, Mike shouted, "No, no, no!" He threw his hands up, cutting Finn off. He stalked angrily over to Artie. "This? Is just noise. It's drowning out my words. Why don't you just... play a little piano or something?"

Artie looked up at him, stunned.

"_There seemed to be artistic differences over Mike's lyrics to Artie's songs._"

"You know," the blonde girl set her light aside and climbed down from the loft, "I don't think a nun would say that about a hill."

"Quinn has a point." Artie adjusted his glasses. "What if he sings 'The hills are vital, intoning the descant'?"

"No!" Finn shouted getting excited. "The hills quake and shake - "

"No, that's stupid." Quinn glared at him.

The three of them started talking over each other, getting louder and louder. "The hills tremble - "

"- move -"

"- twist -"

Brittany shot upright on the bed. "The hills prance about to pretty little lullabies." She giggled, then flopped back down.

"Nah," they chorused.

Mike huffed, crossing his arms across his chest.

Suddenly, a line popped into Blaine's mind. It was perfect.

"Uh, excuse me?" Blaine tried, but the group was getting louder.

"The hills - "

"The hills are - "

"The hills are alive..." Blaine waved his arms above his head to no avail.

"- chanting the eternal mantra." Quinn said, looking proud.

"No, no," Artie waved her off.

"No, the hills are alive..." Blaine was drowned out again.

"The hills move -"

Finn snapped his fingers. "Undulate! No, that's terrible."

The babbling din grew. _To hell with it_, Blaine thought, taking in a deep breath.

"_The hills are alive,_" he sang, a voice he didn't even know he had bursting from him, "_with the sound of music._" He paused, looking around with a small smile.

Everyone was silent, unmoving. Blaine's smile faltered.

Brittany flew off the bed. "'The hills are alive with the sound of music.'" She smiled up at Blaine. "That's so pretty." He grinned at her.

"_The hills are alive with the sound of music._" Artie sang it himself, his fingers playing the piano along with the words. He turned to Blaine. "That's... perfect."

Blaine grew bold. "_With songs they have sung_ _for a thousand years._" They looked at him, eyes wide. "Not too bad, right?"

They all twittered gleefully.

Finn looked at him in disbelief. "That's... that's amazing." He turned to Mike, who was casting an angry glare at the lot of them. "Mike, you and Blaine should write the show together."

Mike's face darkened. "Excuse me?"

"_But Finn's suggestion that Mike and I write the show together was not what Mike wanted to hear._"

The walls shook as Mike slammed the door behind him, shouting goodbyes and curses.

Finn walked over to the table. He tipped a few fingers of green liquid into a glass. He raised his hand to Blaine. "Here's to your first job in Paris." He threw the drink down his throat.

Blaine began climbing down the rungs, shocked. This isn't what he wanted. Not that he didn't think about writing music and songs and plays, but that was far down the line. He didn't even have a limerick to his name at that point. The idea of becoming a playwright the same day he moved to Paris was overwhelming.

He hung from the ladder and looked at them, helpless.

"Finn," Artie started, obviously distraught, "Rachel will never go for this." He glanced at Blaine. "No offense, but have you ever written anything like this before?"

"No!" Blaine assured him.

"So?" Brittany smiled and walked over to him. "Blaine has talent. I like him." She threw her hands up and twirled around, palming Blaine's crotch in the process. Blaine gasped and looked at her, shocked.

She drummed her fingers on his pants. "I really like talent." She bit her lip and gazed up at him.

"'The hills are alive with the sound of music'," Finn repeated, grabbing Artie by the shoulder. "That was off the top his head, and it's a hundred times better than anything Mike ever came up with. With Blaine, we could finally write the revolutionary show we've always wanted to!"

"But how do we convince Rachel?" Quinn asked. Apparently Blaine would be getting no say in this matter.

"_But Finn had a plan._"

Finn smiled down at them. "Kurt." They all gasped in revelation, smiling. They looked at Blaine, obviously pleased. He shot back an unsure smile and jumped down from the set.

"_They'd dress me up and pass me off as a famous English writer. Once Kurt heard my modern poetry, he would be astounded, and insist to Rachel that I write 'Spectacular, Spectacular'._"

"Who is Rachel, exactly?" Blaine had never heard the name before.

"Rachel Berry. The ringmaster of the Moulin Rouge, basically," Quinn answered, then went back to scheming.

His stomach dropped. Write a show for the Moulin Rouge? The way his father had talked, the Moulin Rouge was a veritable Gomorrah.

Living near the Moulin Rouge, yes. Going to the Moulin Rouge once he was established, perhaps. Maybe he'd even partake of their fare someday. But working there, writing a show for the Moulin Rouge?

"_I kept hearing my father's voice in my head: 'You'll end up wasting your life at the Moulin Rouge with a cancan dancer!'_"

Finn turned to him, holding a somehow already refilled glass. "What do you say?" He sipped his drink.

"No! I'm sorry." Blaine fled to the hole in the floor, where they'd set up a ladder between their apartments. "I can't write a show for the Moulin Rouge." He started down.

They all followed after him. "What! But why?" Artie looked at him, confused.

Blaine paused on the ladder. "I don't even know if I am a true Bohemian revolutionary."

They gasped.

"Do you believe in beauty?" Finn asked.

"Yes."

"Freedom?" Brittany spoke now.

"Yes, of course."

"Truth?" asked Artie.

"Yes."

"Love?" Quinn said quietly.

"Love?" Blaine looked at their hopeful faces. "Love." He smiled despite himself. "Above all things, I believe in love. Love is like, oxygen. Love is a many-splendored thing. Love..." he searched for the words, "lifts us where we belong! _All_ you need is love." His smile widened.

They all breathed a sigh of relief. "You can't fool us, Blaine." Finn grinned down at him. "You're it! You're the voice of the Children of the Revolution!" He grabbed Finn's arm and hoisted him back into the top apartment. They all looked at him with big, hopeful eyes.

"Alright, fine! I'll do it." He grinned at them as Brittany grabbed his face and kissed his cheek. "It's just, I don't have a suit. All I've got is more of this." He gestured to his outfit.

Brittany plucked at his vest. "Don't worry, I've got just the thing for you."

"I don't think that's going to work." Artie wrinkled his forehead. "Maybe I have something that will fit you."

"Yes, and that would work if Blaine had the body of a fourteen year old girl," Quinn interjected, rolling her eyes. Artie sighed, frustrated, but didn't say anything in response. "We'll get you into Finn's best suit."

Blaine looked up at Finn, eying his long limbs. "We'll hem it," Quinn added.

* * *

Blaine stood on a chair, wearing Finn's suit pants. The cuffs bunched around his ankles. "What's it like? The Moulin Rouge?" he asked.

Quinn looked up at him, her fingers rolling up the material of the pants. "It's, uh... let's just say you're in for quite a treat. I assume you've been to dance halls before?" She threaded a pin through the pant leg, holding the new cuff in place.

"Well, I've heard about them. I've never actually..." he trailed off, blushing. "And Rachel Berry? She runs it?"

"That's an understatement. Rachel Berry _is_ the Moulin Rouge." She slid a few more pins into the material. "She showed up, merry band of misfits in tow. She bought the building, put up the now infamous windmill, installed a few thousand lights, and viola! The Moulin Rouge was born. I won't say it was a success from the start, because it wasn't. But now, she gets hundreds of clients a night, easily. She's turning dancers, boys _and_ girls, away by the dozen."

Quinn scooted her stool over and started on the other leg.

"And Kurt is the star? The big performer."

"He is now," Brittany chimed in. She sat on the bed, legs curled under her, working at Finn's jacket. "Santana used to be."

"Santana?"

Quinn sighed. "'Santana Legs in the Air', if you want use her 'proper title'. _She_ could draw a crowd. She's the dancer who really got Moulin Rouge going."

"She's gorgeous." Brittany smiled to herself.

"So Kurt..." Blaine was trying to get the story, but some of the pieces didn't fit write. "He what, just came in and stole the show?"

"Yes and no." Quinn set the last pin and inspected her work. "Santana is a fantastic performer. She's long and dark and... sensual. She's exotic enough without actually being exotic. Rachel has known Kurt for their whole lives, essentially. Though, no one's ever gotten the whole story there. When she came to Paris, he was there with her, but he was just one of the boys men... use. Obviously a favorite of hers, someone she doted on, but no one of particular importance as a performer."

Satisfied with her work, Quinn stood up, grabbing at the crotch of Blaine's pants. He felt his face flush, but Quinn was too busy with her work and the story to notice. "Anyway, Santana is headlining. She's seeing men left and right, men who are showering her with money and jewels and – more importantly – attention. But unfortunately, she caught a bad case of the 'flu,' as Rachel likes to call it. She hid it for a while, but unfortunately, right before she has to go on, her voice gives out. Along with the rest of her.

"Rachel is scrambling around, the stage manager is in a rage, the people backstage are in a panic. And that's when they all hear the band start playing. Somehow, Kurt had convinced them all that Rachel had given him permission to perform the routine. Needless to say, Rachel wasn't amused."

She gave up on the inseam and moved to the waist of the pants.

"She was all set to run out there and pull Kurt off the stage with her bare hands. That is, until she hears him sing. That boy... certainly has a voice in him." Quinn smiled. "Rachel peeks out from backstage and Kurt is wearing this, this costume which he obviously made himself, which he obviously spent a while making, meaning that he'd been waiting for an opportunity to present itself."

She pinched the material in her hands, leaning back to look at it properly. "Here, hold this right here. What's even better, better than the fact Kurt had memorized the routine and made his own outfits for it, is that the crowd is... enthralled. Initially, a little confused. But by the end of the first number..." She pulled gently at the waistband, satisfied, then turned to the other.

"He finished out the night, and then the week, and then Santana came back, and that was supposed to be that. But the masses had spoken: they wanted Kurt. So Santana was shoved to the side, not the back but the side, and Kurt was set up in that ridiculous elephant Rachel had constructed, and The Sparkling Diamond was born.

"To be honest, I think Rachel was just waiting for a reason to shower him with attention. She obviously cares about him, in her own strange way."

Quinn set her hands on her hips. "That doesn't look too bad. Take them off, but carefully."

Blaine was already getting used to their indifference to touching and nudity. He unbuttoned his pants and slid them down gently. "I'm going to take a chance and say Santana is bitter about it." He held them out to Quinn, who handed Blaine back his own pants.

"They aren't exactly on friendly terms, no." She headed to a sewing machine in the corner of the flat.

"And it works? Having a man as the star of a burlesque show?" He stepped into the garment. "I mean, I'm sure some men here have the... tendency. But the whole lot of them?"

Quinn shrugged. "It's Kurt. You'll understand when you see him."

From a chair in the kitchen, Finn murmured in agreement. A half-empty bottle of absinthe rested on the table next to him.

Brittany snipped a thread and set her needle down, holding the jacket up to inspect it. "Kurt is very pretty, Blaine. _Very_ pretty." She got up from the bed and motioned for him to come over. "Imagine... a peacock. A girl peacock, the ones that are small and white. But imagine it as a boy, and having those big, pretty tail feathers. That's what Kurt's like." She helped Blaine into the jacket, checking the length of the sleeves.

Blaine did his best to picture it, but couldn't.

"_It was the perfect plan: I was to audition for Kurt._"

It was dark out, and had been for sometime, by the time they were all dressed and ready to head out. Except for Quinn, who was wearing a plain yet elaborate blue dress, they were all dressed in suits. Including Brittany. She had her hair tied in a knot at the back of her neck, and held a hat – similar to the one Blaine himself was holding – in her hands.

The suit fit better than Blaine expected. The shoulders were a little broad and the inseam hung a little low, but there was only so much altering one could do in less than half a day. Quinn eyed the clothing with pride.

Blaine ran his fingers over the buttons of his vest nervously. "So, how exactly am I getting to Kurt? If he doesn't know I'm auditioning. I don't think I'll be able to just grab him and recite poems to him in the middle of the dance floor."

"Don't worry about that," Artie said, flicking the questions away with his wrist. He and Finn were busy with some glasses.

"Yeah, I've got it all figured out. Leave it all to me." He smiled at Blaine. "Right now, I've got a something special for you."

On a tray, Finn had arranged half a dozen glasses filled with that green liquor, each with a spoon holding sugar cubes balanced on their lips. He lit a match and held it to each of the lumps in turn. Taking the bottle, he poured more over the burning sugar.

"Let's drink to the writer of the world's first bohemian revolutionary show." He lifted the tray and turned, offering it to the group.

"_And I would taste my first glass of absinthe._"


	4. Chapter 4

Blaine glanced around nervously before grabbing a glass from proffered tray. Everyone else lifted theirs quickly, eager. Artie and Brittany tipped them towards each other before tossing them back while Finn was already pouring himself another.

Quinn raised her glass to her lips then paused, looking at Blaine over the rim. "Vive la vie de boheme." She winked and swallowed the drink in one gulp. Blaine took a deep breath, then followed suit.

The liquid burned the inside of his mouth and he swallowed hard, grimacing. He could feel the beginning effects of the absinthe wash over him, sounds and colors bleeding together in his head, his skin and bones humming. A green glow in the corner of his eye caught his attention, and he strode to the window. The lights of the windmill illuminated the night sky and Blaine studied them, searching for the one he saw.

Suddenly the green light darted back across his vision. He grabbed for it and it sped away from him then paused, just out of his reach. Focusing, Blaine saw that it wasn't a ball of light, it was a fairy. Small and delicate and flitting its emerald butterfly wings, the light came from within it. It flew to him and smiled, then pinched his nose cheekily before taking off again.

Giggling madly, Blaine lunged after her, reaching out the window. His body tipped forward and he felt hands grab his hips, hauling him back inside. He whined in protest.

"Careful," Finn said, setting Blaine down away from the window.

"Finn!" Blaine exclaimed. "I think I like absinthe. And I like you. You're very tall. Like a ladder. Or a tree." He leaned heavily into Finn's side. "I bet I could climb you."

Finn grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. "Come on, we better go. Everything is starting." He walked over to Artie and cupped him beneath his arms and knees, lifting him easily. They headed downstairs, Brittany following close behind.

Blaine grabbed his hat and jammed it onto his head, he sighed and glanced at Quinn, who smiled patiently at him. She held her hand out to him and he took it, letting her pull him gently along.

_"We were off to the Moulin Rouge. And I was to perform my poetry for Kurt."_

As they passed the windmill, he could hear music from across the courtyard. Blaine looked up as they passed by a gigantic elephant standing in the middle of it, boggling at it's size. "This place is gigantic."

"'A city within a village', some call it," Artie called over his shoulder. Brittany pushed his chair around a group of men in shirttails, passing a vial amongst themselves.

"What, um, what exactly is it like? In there?" He gestured with his free hand towards the building.

A long arm dropped across his shoulders. "Better than anything you could ever imagine, my friend."

As they reached the doors a couple of men pulled them open and instantly, Blaine was bombarded with sounds and lights and smells. Blaine stiffened, and Quinn squeezed his hand assuredly. Taking a deep breathe, he headed inside.

Finn was right, there was no preparing for this. The room was bigger than anything Blaine had ever been in before. It was stuffed with people: men in tuxedos, women in rainbow dresses, people in costumes. His eyes grew tired before he had even looked around the entire room. And the sounds. Laughing and shouting, just barely drowned out by a band playing loudly in the balcony.

His head pounded. He tried to move to the side but was met by a wall of people. A man nudged his shoulder and winked conspiratorially and pointed across the hall. The wall of mirrors began to open. He pulled Quinn away from the blond boy she was grinning at and held her close. "What's going on?" Blaine practically shouted into her ear.

She glanced at what Blaine was openly staring at. "Ah," she sighed, wrapping her arms around his waist. "The _real_ show is starting."

_"Rachel Berry and her infamous dancers. They called them her 'Diamond Dogs'."_

Girls poured from the mirrored doors, each in a tight dress that ended in colorful ruffles. But in front of them all was a woman, smaller than those around her, dressed as the ringleader to this circus. She cracked the riding crop she held in her hand on the ground and smiled at the men in the room.

"Welcome! To the Moulin Rouge!" she cried out, and was met with a thunderous applause. Her grin widened. The band started again, and the grin melted into a smirk.

"_If life's an awful bore, and living's just a chore that we do, 'cause death's not much fun." _The voice that came from Rachel was loud and powerful. She strut forward, eyes alight, leading the throng of dancers onto the floor.

"_I've the antidote, and though I mustn't gloat at the Moulin Rouge you'll have fun. So scratch that little niggle, have a little wiggle." _The girls around her writhed against her body and she pressed back against them shamelessly, winking at whoever in the audience caught her eyes.

Blaine was starting to see how Rachel Berry had been able to make the Moulin Rouge work. The men around him shouted and hollered, money clenched tightly in their fists.

"_Got some dark desire? Love to play with fire? Why not let it rip? Live a little bit._"

Doors he hadn't noticed opened from another wall and male dancers, dressed like the men in the audience, mixed in with the girls. Blaine watched as Brittany worked her way into the sea of dancers, making a beeline for one girl in particular. She grabbed her by the waist and fell into the choreography with the rest of them.

"_Outside it may be raining, but in here it's entertaining. The Moulin Rouge is the place to be." _Rachel flipped the hat off one of the men edging in on her and disappeared into the crowd.

Blaine glanced around. The floor was now teeming with men from the audience, grabbing at the girls, and singing and dancing. He saw one man near him grab an Asian girl, dressed in a risque imitation of a Chinese silk dress, and surge against her. She laughed and danced away from him, flipping the hem of her dress flirtatiously.

Rachel popped up next to the band in the balcony, gripping the railing._ "Outside things may be tragic __but in here we feel it's magic."_ She laughed, eyes flashing at the writhing mob below her. She paused, then held her hands up. The instruments and the crowd fell silent.

"It's time for the Cancan," she said, practically in a whisper. Men gasped with excitement and hurried to their seats along the edge of the floor. Blaine felt a hand on his, pulling him backwards, but he couldn't tear his eyes away. He stood there next to a table, gaping.

Music started playing again, loud and thumping. The girls moved together in perfect synchronicity. Blaine could feel the beat of their movements thrumming in his temples. Although he's seen it a dozen times already, he gasped and flushed when they lifted their skirts as they dances, flashing smooth legs and the frill of their undergarments.

The tempo increased further and Blaine lost himself in a blur of colors and sounds. Men oozed onto the floor and the dancing devolved. The men helped themselves to the girls, touching and squeezing. Blaine watched in amazement as the girls invited the attention instead of shying away. Here, a girl pushed a man onto the floor and straddled him, cackling. There, another was pressed between two men, rolling her body like a wave.

The music turned to a deafening noise in his head and Blaine was sure he was going to be sick. Thankfully he was shoved into a chair, forcing him to tear his eyes away from the spectacle.

Leaning his elbows onto the table, Artie beckoned him forward with a crooked finger. They all leaned in. "We have successfully evaded Rachel," he said, smiling.

"I'm still not sure how I'm supposed to read to Kurt," Blaine confessed, glancing nervously around the table.

"I've got a plan," Finn replied as he took a couple glasses from a waitress. "Here," he handed one to Blaine, "drink up."

Blaine ignored it. "But you said he performed every night."

As if on cue the band fell silent and the lights dimmed. Blaine looked to the floor to see what was happening, and when he found them all staring upwards he followed their gaze. Metallic confetti rained down, illuminated by a spotlight. He gasped as he watched a swing lower from the ceiling.

"That's him," Finn said softly. "The Sparkling Diamond."

'Sparkling' was right. Even in the pale light, the stones on Kurt's vest and his hatband glittered. His shirt was made of a white satin that blended into his light skin and shone. It seemed like he was glowing.

Blaine sucked in a shuddering breath as he stared up at the other man, enthralled.

"_But someone else was to meet Kurt that night"_

In the booth behind him, another man was as immediately taken with Kurt. He dug his fingers into the meat of this thighs, clenching his jaws as his eyes took in Kurt.

"_Rachel's investor: the Duke."_


End file.
